Mystical Logistics

When I’m with you, darling, over time,

I find I’ve no idea who “you” are

nor the slightest notion of what

could be meant by “me.” “Me” is like a flea

you want to kill because it makes you itch.

Does this somehow suggest a richly

necessary mastery of self-forgetting –

part of the logistics of becoming those

deep-diving mystics we once breathlessly

professed we yearned to be?

Perhaps we’re where we wanted to arrive:

the point from which we might derive

the whole encompassing, encompassed

view: the there of here, the here of there:

eternal, ever rare and new.

But I can’t breathe, can you?

Wherever this is, there's no air.

.